Текст песни Carambola, Or Rome Was Built in a Day (Flight Distance) с переводом

To James Joyce’s bones and the ghost of Langston Hughes

Whose poems rang of truth and to those who sang the blues

To those who showed their fangs but never broke the bank in two

'Cause the lowest hanging fruit was never enough, it’s never enough

To old Dylan Thomas and the ghost of Langston Hughes

Whose poems rang of truth and to those who sang the blues

To those who showed their fangs but never broke the bank in two

Or picked the lowest hanging fruit to appease those who drank its juice

«You know, I think of something that’s funny then I go get a pen and I write it

down. Or if the pen’s too far away I have to convince myself that what I

thought of, ain’t funny»

Wake up

Vacuum the floor, watch the door, reorganize your records

Scan for pretension in your text, cancel breakfast

Drink something fortified instead, it’s damn incentive

To land in bed with a handled checklist, you ran the sentence like a spike

Your run-ons are such nonsense

Wash your hands and dangle your phalanges till they’re dry

Now a drunk hostage of what options?

You wanna make 'em synthesize, to live or die, there isn’t time, it’s dignified

A witness lies, or skims to find some kind of thing inside

That feeds their narcissism written within, it isn’t worth it

This isn’t bullshit, though, it’s something, right, it counts

Akira confidence, the fear of consequence just mounts

Put it out there, the masters all knew what they were doing

And trust me, nothing you write is hackneyed like Dave McEwen

That’s the practice, some homework for your audience

Your batting average is more nonsense, and you lob it in

Best friend, worst enemy, eventually one in the

Same it might come from the

Basic run of the

Millions of millions of neurons to which you’re subject

Publishers want the moving parts, they want to touch base

Word to God, you’re a fraud, they’ve heard it all

Burn the crops, it’s curtain call, learn to crawl, et cetera

A practical joke, your back’s to the ropes, you can’t even cope

The matter is toast, you had to just coast along, the wrong competitor

Turn it off, you were lost, Who’s The Boss? came on, your dog ate it

Cue the nonchalance, they’re all tasteless

But the fact remains, you’ve cashed the cheque

And if that editor rears his ugly head around here, you’re gonna snap his neck

Yeah the fact remains you’ve spent the dough

And if the bill collectors fill your head with dread you’re gonna send him home,

head first

Essentially, friend to me, you’ve blown your deadline

And now you never leave your home, it’s bedtime

The best idea strikes the second your head hits the down

Pull a Mitch Hedberg instead, listen now:

24 hours, not a word, you fill in your cage

Quite nicely, Rome was built in a day

Goodnight

To James Joyce’s bones and the ghost of Langston Hughes

Whose poems rang of truth and to those who sang the blues

To those who showed their fangs but never broke the bank in two

'Cause the lowest hanging fruit was never enough, it’s never enough

To old Dylan Thomas and the ghost of Langston Hughes

Whose poems rang of truth and to those who sang the blues

To those who showed their fangs but never broke the bank in two

Or picked the lowest hanging fruit to appease those who drank its juice

Piss on 'em

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